Your husband is out training in the fields again.

It's nearly dusk, the grass rustles around his form, the breeze soft and whistling, like wind chimes. Shi slashes at the scarecrow - what's left of it, arms gone and potato sack clothes torn on the poor scarecrow's body.

Look closer, his hands are bruised and bleeding as he grips the hilt of his blade tighter, he's lost in precision.

Shi senses your presence, and whirls, shifting defensively before he startles. "My love," he breathes, caught.